


dust to dust

by fordisgay



Series: Found Family [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Autistic Pines Family, Jewish Pines Family, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 23:50:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14389698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fordisgay/pseuds/fordisgay
Summary: Ford seeks out his old partner to make amends.





	dust to dust

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a post-finale series I call "the Pines family is disastrous and I cherish them". Basically just, everybody's adventures from mundane things like going to the post office or the mall, to punching krakens in the face on the high seas. It's self-indulgent.

_ “I decided to call up my old college buddy, Fiddleford McGucket; a brilliant mechanic who was wasting his life trying to build ‘personal computers’ in some garage in Palo Alto.” _

 

He hasn’t seen his old friend since Weirdmageddon. Sure, people from town had come in droves to help rebuild the Sha- house. And he’s positive he’d caught a flash of his friend darting in between townsfolk working hard with hammers and lifting boards. Either that, or it had been his brain running wild again. He hadn’t exactly gotten much sleep before the event, and certainly not during--he has no desire to think more on what transpired, not right now--and absolutely not since Gravity Falls reverted back to its previous state, again untouched by the nightmare realm. He’s had too much to do. Hovering around Stanley and trying to put his twin’s mind back together in vain, because he’s only truly known Stan for seventeen years of their sixty-odd year lives. The kids know more of his brother as a grown man than he does.

 

He still tries, of course. He can’t bear to sit and wallow when he could still  _ attempt _ . They manage to contain most of Stan’s frustration behind closed doors, where the kids can’t hear or see their uncles both losing their wits. Stan’s doing better, though. He may not be good for seeing through everyone else’s lies, but he knows his brother enough he can see Stan truly regaining what he lost. Bit by bit.

 

Yet between all of that, he just hasn’t had any time to make contact with his old friend. His once-closest confidant. Stan’s needed him. The kids have needed him. He tells himself that to assuage the guilt, because if he can prioritize his guilt then maybe he can chip away at it better, rather than swimming in an ocean of overwhelming shame. Kids and his brother first. Even if it pains him to leave his friend for later.

 

Now, though, he does have time. The kids dragged Stan out for one last hurrah at the lake, a day of final sandy summer fun with lots of swimming and sandcastle-building before they have to return home. Soos went with them, naturally (he wonders how he knows it’s natural, but then, his twin and Soos seem to have a bond much beyond simple employee-boss). Which left the Sha-  _ house _ empty of everyone but himself.

 

He hates to be alone. There’d been a couple years when he’d newly moved to Oregon where he’d felt isolated. He’d shoved that feeling down, insisted he didn’t miss his newlywed buddy that much. At all (he’d been very bitter, you see, about the “newlywed” descriptor being applied to his friend). So when he called Fiddleford a long while later and asked him up to Gravity Falls for help on the portal, he was ecstatic upon his friend’s happy acceptance. He showered, did laundry, went shopping for food, even made up his bedroom all tidy and moved his things to the spare room. Not like they really ever slept in separate rooms much, but the sentiment of hospitality had been there before they embraced like no time had passed since those nights in their college dorm.

 

Years later, everything turned wrong. He was left alone in the creaking house (no, not alone, not with Him being so menacingly ever-present), losing his sanity. He’d barely made out the postcard to his brother between his blood-dripping eye lancing pain through his skull and seeing double from exhaustion. What followed was more loneliness. Thirty years of it, interspersed with brief friendly encounters that were absolutely swallowed by ugliness.

 

He hadn’t wanted to be alone when he came back, against all odds (really, he’d gotten Parallel Fiddleford to help him run the numbers, and the odds of ever going home had been horrible). But… well, the portal absolutely had to be dismantled, there was no question about it. And then he’d had to contain the rift. And Stan didn’t want him around the kids, so. He stayed underground. Alone. He and Dipper played a couple games of DD&MD, but none more after that kidnapping by Probabilitor. He’d felt  _ bad _ about putting his nephew in danger. Even though, well, logically it  _ had _ been Stan’s fault that time, getting so unrightfully hassled about their game encroaching on the living room, and throwing down the bag of dice for no reason other than to make a scene. But then, if Ford really thought about it, and listened very intently to the voice in his head, he understood it had absolutely been his fault. Entirely. Shouldn’t have gone upstairs. Shouldn’t have started the game at all. Shouldn’t have kept the infinity die in that cheap case. Shouldn’t have done anything at all but stay underground.

 

He starts walking again, having paused for a moment as the thoughts whirled in his brain. Keep walking. Keep moving. The dirt roadside turns into cracked sidewalk as he arrives in the town itself, and his brain is forced to concentrate on evenly stepping over the cracks. Left foot steps over this crack, then right foot, then- oh, damn, right foot again, so now left foot over the next two cracks, then back to right foot, then left foot. Keep it even. Don’t step on the cracks themselves. Not because it could break his mother’s back--trust, he’d been petrified of that as a kid after being taunted with it on the playground, and he’d raced home after school, heart hammering against his chest as he hurried upstairs. His mother had been right as rain, shushing him as he asked about her spinal health because  _ Stanford, I’m on the phone _ and he’d been relieved to know that was entirely a myth. But the whole “not stepping on cracks” thing ended up being a compulsion anyway, for no explicable reason. He’s always wondered if it’s in the same vein as his bizarre hand wringing when he gets excited, or the occasion he catches himself sucking on his teeth for the sensation and the noise both. Hm. Not the strangest thing about him, that spot goes to his hands, but still weird nonetheless.

 

He knows well where the junkyard is. He and Fiddleford used to go there for free scrap because they’d both religiously followed the “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure” adage. Was it disgusting to go digging through piles of trash? Yes, but that’s why Hashem invented rubber gloves and putting a clothespin on your nose.

 

His old partner lives in squalor. Because of what he did so many years ago. Ford takes a couple deep breaths to steel himself, then keeps walking. Along the dirt and the metal-ridden paths anyone could cut their bare feet on (not just anyone,  _ Fiddleford _ ). It takes some doing and backtracking, but he finds the shed his friend crafted for himself. Always resourceful, even while struggling in the severe mental state Dipper had described. While his friend shouldn’t have to live this way at all, it’s nonetheless admirable how he did manage to make himself a little bit of a home out of discarded junk.

 

The small smile disappears when he catches sight of the green and pink spraypaint letters on the side of his friend’s home.  _ Psycho. Nutcase. McSuckit. _

 

He feels his fists clench at his side as his brow furrows, nostrils flaring. Idiot teenagers, mocking Fiddleford for something he can’t  _ help _ . Clearly teenagers still haven’t evolved from when he was one himself. Though, the adults in this town really aren’t any better. He’d caught snippets of conversation while there were people out rebuilding the Shack, and any mentions of Fiddleford had been vile, to say the least.

 

A light humming breaks him out of his slowly boiling anger, and he glances toward the sound filtering in his ears to find the one and only Fiddleford McGucket rounding the corner from behind a pile of old rusted out cars. He’s carrying a bulging makeshift cloth sack in one hand, the ends bunched up in his fist to keep everything from tumbling out.

 

“Fiddleford,” he calls as his friend approaches, not seeming to have noticed anyone else there. The humming stops abruptly, and Fiddleford pauses in his tracks, blinking like he’s just been woken up from sleep. His gaze zeroes in on Ford standing a few feet from the shed, and before he can say anything else, his friend breaks into a grin, the man dropping the cloth he’d been carrying and racing toward him.

 

He somehow ends up on his back in the dirt, and he’s both surprised and not. Surprised because he hadn’t expected Fiddleford to take a flying leap at him and knock him down. Not surprised because his partner had done that on occasion when they were much younger and he had quite a lot of power behind his skinny frame, which Fiddleford explained came from practice with literal hog-tying. Ford wagers a guess that the swine his friend grew up with as a child were much different in temperament than his dear niece’s beloved, lazy pet. His friend crouches on top of him, leaning over him and smiling cheerily. “Why, looky who it is! Ain’t seen  _ your _ face in a long while. Ya got real real grey there, Stanferd,” Fiddleford laughs to himself, poking at Ford’s unkempt silvery hair.

 

That grin is infectious. Or maybe it’s because he’s longed for Fiddleford’s company for so terribly long that he’s overcome with joy at a real reunion, unlike their rushed hug during the apocalypse. Either way, he’s happy. Even happier than he has been lately being around his family all hours of the day.

 

“At least my hair isn’t as white as a goyische winter!” He fires back before he can stop himself to  _ think _ and wonder maybe he might hurt his friend’s feelings, or might snap his friend out of his happiness. Because sure, they  _ used _ to enjoy exchanging good-natured jabs with each other, and sure, Fiddleford  _ used _ to be far better at it than him and could take the heat and turn it back on Ford twice as hot. But that’s how it  _ used _ to be. He hasn’t any idea if his friend is more easily hurt by these things now, especially coming from… well, coming from him. The man who ruined Fiddleford’s life, regardless of their past friendship.

 

Fiddleford cocks his head to the side a little, blinking slowly, almost owlishly at him. And Ford thinks, this is it, I’ve ruined this before we even really spoke.

 

And then his friend blinks again, and something catches behind his eyes, and he laughs. Loudly. No sign of bitterness, just… pure humor. Fiddleford climbs off of him in between guffaws, absolutely tickled by the lighthearted insult. They sit next to each other, Ford smiling fondly at his friend and in no rush to move as Fiddleford collects himself, running a hand through his beard.

 

“Boy howdy, y’got me good,” his friend chuckles. “Couldn’t hardly ‘member what ‘goyische’ meant fer a long minute there.” He lets out a breath, finally getting out the last of his laughter as his blue eyes look back to Stanford across from him, lips quirking upward. “What brings ya here, old friend?”

 

No malice behind his voice. No hint of sclera flashing yellow and pupils elongating to slits. Not even bitterness about their departure from one another, and the circumstances of. The only thing he can read from his friend is friendliness. “I wanted to…” He mulls it over, something knotting in his stomach as he thinks, then changes the course of his sentence. “To see you again.” Later. Once they’ve settled into conversation. He’ll apologize then.

 

Fiddleford hops up with the energy of a man  _ far _ younger than him, hurrying back to the bundle he’d dropped and scooping it up before gesturing for Ford to follow him inside his home. “C’mon in! No sense stayin’ out in that there sun all day. Y’might fry in yer coat.”

 

Fair enough. His usual garb is fine for venturing through the forest or staying warm below the house, but his sweater has already started itching from the sweat coming out of his skin. So he gladly follows his friend inside. There’s a metal tub with a washboard, an actual cabinet dragged in for storage, a box for a table, a wood stove, and two rocking chairs. The absence of a bed is obvious, though he doesn’t comment on it for his friend’s sake.

 

“Y’can sit there in one’a them seats,” Fiddleford kindly offers, gesturing to the chairs as he sets the bundle on the floor and scurries over to the spot Ford doesn’t take. Curling up in it like a cat, his friend looks quite comfortable as he adjusts the glasses on his nose, resting his hands on his drawn-up knees.

 

Ford takes a deep breath as his friend looks curiously at him, knowing nothing about their conversation is going to be easy, despite Fiddleford’s demeanor. Then he speaks, because it’s now or never. “How have you been since… we last saw each other?” He hedges, not wanting to speak any actual words mentioning the apocalypse, or…  _ Him _ … 

 

“Wellll,” Fiddleford draws out, tongue against his teeth as his eyes travel to the right, staring into space as he thinks. “Golly, I don’t think none much’s changed,” he says finally, furrowing his brow as his eyes dart back and forth for a minute, as if sifting through a pile of thoughts in front of him. “No, no, none’s changed’t all,” he shakes his head. “Guess I kinda wished’t had, but ah well. How’s ya been?” Fiddleford leans forward in the chair, eyes trained entirely on Stanford. He pretends it’s not upsetting, how  _ nothing _ has changed even after Fiddleford helped save the entire town, and the world even.

 

“Things have been improving. Stan is regaining his memory with strong success, especially with the kids’ help. They’re not looking forward to going home, however.” There, easy. Nothing about himself. He came for Fiddleford, not to dump his woes on his friend’s home like all the other refuse around them.

 

Apparently that was not a satisfactory answer. Fiddleford leans closer to the point he’s almost tipping the chair over, peering at him behind green lenses. “Y’all’re still obtuse,” he announces, jabbing a finger toward Ford’s chest. “I know darn well how yer family’s gettin’ along. How’ve  _ you _ been, Stanford Pines?” He probes, firmly this time, and Ford blinks in surprise. Fiddleford’s mind has hardly “gone” as everyone else seemed to think. Rather, it’s still tinkering away at every matter in the world, stored in tabs of a filing cabinet due to the sheer number of things going in Fiddleford’s brain at once. Same as always.

 

And then an “oh.” in his head as he realizes what’s been asked of him. What he’d been attempting to avoid.  _ Think of a lie, something that will keep you from divulging too much _ . Yes, that would work. He does it multiple times a day with Stan, and the kids too, when they ask him if he’s alright.  _ Yes, I’m fine. No, that Vera Lynn record didn’t give him a panic attack. No, he’s not wallowing in guilt just because Stan can’t remember that time they found the future Stan O’ War in that seaside cave. No, he’d much prefer to keep the sweater on at all times. _ The same principle applies here. Lie, avoid burdening others. Fiddleford has enough to deal with.

 

He looks around, avoiding Fiddleford’s gaze very purposefully as he begins, “I-”  _ I’m fine.  _ The words catch in his throat, dying out as his eyes land on the Cubic’s Cube resting on the cabinet across the room. Perfectly solved. No longer being messed with as an ornery prank on his friend. He can’t swallow without pain as his nose burns, the backs of his eyes smarting as he blinks back the inevitable.

 

_ Not fine. Not fine.  _ “I’m sorry,” he admits quietly. “Fiddleford, I’m so sorry.” His fingers grip the arms of the rocking chair tightly to the point of his knuckles turning white, finally daring to look at his friend, searching his face for any signs of remorse, anger, fear.  _ “You’re the one with the sickness!” _ he’d spat in Ford’s face that night, verbally shaking him roughly out of his delusion that what he’d done,  _ anything _ about this, was in any way  _ right _ . And then Fiddleford had pulled away as if burned, clutching at his shirt while he stood up on trembling legs and tossed a bitter resignation over his shoulder as he limped away. For good.

 

“Stanford.”

 

He looks up, breaking out of the memories tearing him downward, and blinking past the tears in his eyes. Fiddleford stands over him, a hand on his knee as he leans a little forward. He smells of fuming diesel and tangy metal and earthy mud now they’re this close to one another. Ford knows he smells like he hasn’t showered (which he hasn’t) and probably pine needles. And burnt hair, because razors for shaving terrify him senseless, so fire is the answer to his need for a shave every couple of days.

 

Fiddleford reaches a hand up, glancing at it and then at Ford for any sign of… he’s not sure what his friend is looking for, but he’s tentative as he slowly closes the gap and pats Ford’s cheek lightly. “I recall rightly I told ya I forgive ya,” he says in a gentle twangy lilt, patting his cheek once more before withdrawing the hand. “Y’always been bad at listenin’.” His voice takes on a teasing tone, light eyes twinkling with a touch of mischief among the kindness.

 

He sniffs, hurrying to wipe away the tracks on his face as he sighs wearily. “You’re a far better man than anyone I’ve met. There is no reason to forgive what I’ve done to you.” He gestures around them and back at Fiddleford himself. “You were right all along, and I didn’t listen, because I am  _ horrible _ at listening to people who tell me crucial things. You’re the one who paid the price for that. Why forgive me for any of it?” He grabs Fiddleford’s arms before thinking (again, never thinking, just acting carelessly), staring into his eyes in a way he never does because eye contact makes him want to clutch his head in pain, but this is important, he has to get through to his friend, beseech him to reconsider just tossing forgiveness to him like a bone to a hungry dog.

 

“Look here,” Fiddleford begins, extricating one arm from Ford’s grip and pointing at him, finger almost touching his reddened nose. “I’ve spent lots of time bein’ mad at ya. Cryin’ and carryin’ on, and usin’ that blasted mem’ry thing on my brain t’make it all just go away. ‘M tired’f it.” Fiddleford sighs, shoulders sagging for a moment, before he draws himself up again and looks Ford in the eye. “Forgivin’ ya is for my sanity, firstly ‘n’ foremostly. It ain’t somethin’ I can just,” he waves his hands in the space between them, searching for words, “just act like it’s done ‘n’ dead to me. It was eatin’ me up. So I tried t’forgive ya. And I ain’t felt better like this in… well, lord knows how long.” Fiddleford shrugs, palms up. “Y’know why I tell ya I forgive ya?” He asks, voice soft again as he looks down at Ford.

 

He can’t begin to guess, so he shakes his head honestly.

 

“I got a feelin’ you need somebody to forgive ya. Cause you ain’t ever forgive yourself when y’do somethin’ wrong,” Fiddleford tells him, tone soothing as he pats Ford’s hand kindly. Almost lovingly.

 

He acts without thinking a third time, but he has a strong hunch Fiddleford does the same. The rocking chair knocks back against the tin roof wall with a clang as his friend rushes into his arms, Ford wrapping around him so tightly he’s fleetingly worried he might crush him. Then he worries Fiddleford might crush  _ him _ , because the man has a lot of strength behind his end of the embrace. They cling to one another almost desperately, like a man lapping up water after exiting the desert, as if to make up for all the years apart. They can feel their hearts beating loudly against each other, breaths hushed and shaky as they hold each other,  _ feeling _ each other again. All the time in the world has passed. And yet it almost feels like none has passed at all.

 

They sit there for an unknown amount of time, for lack of a clock, but the tender moment is finally broken by Fiddleford loudly asking in his ear, “What’n the Sam Hill is this?” A light tap of a finger against the side of his throat, under the turtleneck of his sweater that usually covers everything. Past the bandages he’d applied to his neck this morning.

 

Oh. “It’s ah…” He wracks his brain for a minute, trying to remember what exactly is inked on the left side of his neck. Then it hits him. “Magen David,” he recalls clearly. The symbol acted the same as any pagan sigil in warding off evils and burning certain monsters when they tried to touch his throat or head. It unfortunately did not help much during Weirdmageddon, but he has a feeling it kept him alive, at the very least.

 

“Ya put that on your  _ neck _ ?” Fiddleford asks incredulously, leaning back to actually look Ford in the eye with one brow raised.

 

“For protection,” he explains, running a thumb across the top of Fiddleford’s arm lovingly. “Did you know there are Chabad centers in every dimension I’ve ever visited?” He starts excitedly, then pauses. “Well, in the M dimension, it was called a ‘Mabad’ center, but it was essentially the same.”

 

Fiddleford settles back against him (a surprise, but not unwelcome in the least), lightly playing with one of Ford’s hands absently. “Were these… other places…” His whole body stiffens, and Ford senses quickly what he’s asking.  _ Were these other dimensions as hellish as the one I saw? _

 

He rushes to put his friend’s mind at ease. “Some were unpleasant. Others were quite wonderful. The Nightmare Realm is an exception among exceptions, mind. Nothing is quite as terrible as that. Once I escaped from that realm, even the worst dimensions I visited weren’t nearly as bad. The M dimension sounds like something my niece would have imagined. Every proper noun in that universe began with the letter ‘m’. I felt like I was losing it by the time I left.” He chuckles a little, Fiddleford snorting at his shoulder.

 

They talk about Ford’s ‘adventures’ over the last three decades for a good while. He glosses over the Nightmare Realm for his old friend’s sake, since he can feel every muscle in Fiddleford’s body go rigid whenever it’s even mentioned in passing. Fiddleford asks him about the Oracle, sucking in a breath in worry when Ford tells of the surgery to put a metal plate directly onto his skull (he’s quick to reassure his friend that the Oracle put him in a trance so he felt nothing, just saw axolotls swimming pleasantly in his blurred vision). He’s hesitant to discuss Parallel Fiddleford, for fear it might wound his friend to know how much  _ better _ things could have been had Ford not been such a fool.

 

But Fiddleford seems fascinated to hear about an alternate self who’s like him, but not. “So yer tellin’ me we’d go around spelunkin’ in other dimensions?” He asks, wonder echoing in his voice as he twines and untwines his fingers with Ford’s.

 

His smile widens as he chuckles lowly. “That’s the gist of it. The Shack never really turned into the Shack, just became the admissions office for the Institute we founded. We built another house for ourselves further down the road, tucked back in the trees.”

 

“‘We’?” Fiddleford inquires, voice hushed as he glances over to the makeshift door of his home for any sign of other people.

 

“You very obviously had a hand in designing the place. I will admit,” he hedges, although grudgingly, “It seemed much better designed in floorplan and decoration when you had such control over the construction process.”

 

His friend sits up, turning to face him as a smug smile spreads slowly across his face. “Now hold on a right minute. You  _ liked _ the house better when I made it make sense?”

 

“ _ You _ hold on,” Ford stares hard at him, “Don’t go thinking this means you’ve won that old argument. I still quite enjoy my house as it stands.”

 

“Oh,  _ sure _ ,” Fiddleford replies simperingly, biting his tongue to stifle any laughter as his face breaks into a grin. “Ah course you still ‘prefer’ yer house. Ah course,” he waves a hand dismissively, and Ford frowns deeper, lightly batting at the other man’s hand.

 

“Fiddleford,” he warns, though he has to work his jaw to ward off the infectious smile he’s contracted from his friend.

 

“No, no, I won’t rub it in none. You were sayin’, about lil ol’ Parallel Me?” Fiddleford’s face still betrays the high levels of humor he holds at being absolutely  _ right _ , the smug hillbilly, but Ford chooses to ignore it in favor of changing the topic.

 

“As I was saying,” he emphasizes with a pointed look at his friend, who stares innocently back at him. He rolls his eyes in response. “Your Parallel Self was quite adamant about me not making contact with his Ford. The other Fiddleford had taken an expedition with a team to another dimension, and when one member of the team encountered himself and touched hands, the dimension began to crumble and glitch. He described it like when a television starts fizzling before it turns to static. Parallel Fiddleford and the rest of the team barely made it out of there alive.”

 

“That’s right spooky,” Fiddleford replies quietly, sobered now by the thought. “How’d ya stay separate from each other?” He wonders, bending a couple of Ford’s fingers back, albeit gently, before curling them inward.

 

“Creative scheduling, as well as liberally shoving me or him back through the room we just came from in their house. I almost cracked my head on more than several things because he was so eager to push me around. I suppose I can’t blame him, though. I’d be extra cautious the same way to keep my entire world from collapsing in on itself.” Ford turns his hand to capture Fiddleford’s in his own, humming a little as he thinks. “That thankfully didn’t last long, since your Parallel Self helped me with the last part I needed for my quantum destabilizer rifle, and sent me on my way. Back to the Nightmare Realm.”

 

Fiddleford stiffens again, grip tightening on Ford’s hand. “Why’s that?” He asks, though his voice is faint.

 

“Not to worry, I clearly survived. It was… an attempt to undo my mistake. I had to kill him. Stop him from harming anyone else.”

 

“Rehpic Llib,” Fiddleford mumbles cryptically, gripping Ford’s arm with both hands now as his heart’s rhythm breaks into a sprint.

 

“Fiddleford,” Ford takes his other hand, shifting to look at his face. “He’s dead.”

 

“I know,” he replies, voice trembling. “‘M fine.”

 

“You don’t seem-”

 

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Fiddleford enunciates firmly. “What happened after that?”

 

Ford courteously drops the matter, leaning back again. “The portal had been reactivated. I saw a wormhole open up and didn’t care where it lead at the time. I just knew I had to get through it before anything caught up to me… or before anything got through first. It turned out to be… Well, here.” Ford waves an arm around them. “Thankfully the concussion blast I set off to propel me toward the wormhole faster, also happened to have an effect on the portal’s structure itself and collapsed the thing just as I came through. That surely made it easier to dismantle it later, what with your anal retentive craftsmanship.” His voice becomes teasing as he just barely prods his friend in the shoulder.

 

“What’s better, Stanford: Puttin’ somethin’ together so tight it’s hard to destroy, or havin’ the dang thing fall apart the second y’try to use it the first time?” He acts indignant, but there’s no real heat to his voice. It’s comforting that they’ve already settled back into their old habit of giving each other a hard time over nothing. Hopeful for the future stretching ahead of them.

 

“Oh, absolutely the former. It was a compliment to your abilities,” he pretend-soothes, and Fiddleford gives a sarcastic “hmph” in reply.

 

Then his friend practically launches himself out of the chair, across to the box serving as his second cabinet. “Good lord, where’re my manners? D’ya want a drink?” He reaches behind the box, unearthing a jug of what is no doubt to be moonshine. Fiddleford holds it up for viewing, shaking the contents a little in question.

 

“I wouldn’t mind a small drink. I do have to walk home, however, so don’t put me out with it,” he warns as he stands up, stretching and cracking his joints.

 

Fiddleford laughs, assuring him he won’t get him drunk silly, and pours Ford a red party cup half-filled with his family recipe of moonshine. He pours himself a tin mug patched with duct tape around the bottom edges (brilliant way of keeping it from leaking--Mabel might like that, since she’s gotten into duct tape crafts lately), and they clink rims before drinking. He ends up coughing violently, because he hasn’t had such strong alcohol even in utterly alien dimensions, and Fiddleford is only halfway concerned for him, the other half occupied with laughing at him sputtering around the fire in his throat and nose.

 

“Bit too strong for ya?” He asks sympathetically, snickering around his words.

 

“Delightful,” he lies none too convincingly, setting his friend off again. Ford shakes his head in a vain effort to clear it, looking around for any sign of a water faucet to dunk his head under even though he knows good and well there is none. In his hopeless search, however, he spies something of true interest, and strides over to the pile of scattered papers, kneeling down to flip through them. “You still design machines?”

 

Fiddleford joins him at the pile, looking over his shoulder. “Aw, ‘design’ ain’t the word for it. Just doodles when I’m feelin’ sorry ‘bout myself.”

 

_ Death ray. Network-expanding hub. A miniature hadron super collider.  _ That one makes him snort quietly, knowing his friend’s lifelong obsession with the real Hadron Collider. Where else could his middle name have come from, after all?  _ Giant human robot operated by a person wearing a suit covered in sensors…  _ “These are remarkable!” He can’t help the exclamation, looking up at the other man in excitement as the gears turn rapidly in his head. “You know, you could refine some of these and patent them with a government office,” he says eagerly, passing his friend a couple blueprints as he stands, pointing at a couple diagrams on one paper. “Perhaps with the royalties from these, you could make a better living for yourself. I’ve heard from Dipper that the personal computer business is already booming, and you had the idea long before anyone else. Just think what kind of industries you would be pioneering with these inventions you’ve come up with in your spare time.” He can feel himself getting carried away, mouth running a mile a minute, but he’s  _ excited _ . Joyful, really. If he can talk Fiddleford into submitting his ideas for patents, then… well, it would be a small way of making things up to his dear friend. Minuscule, but it would be at least  _ something _ .

 

Fiddleford stares at him, blinking slowly as his mind processes furiously behind his eyes. There’s a few logistics to think over, yes, but Fiddleford couldn’t possibly refuse… could he? It’d be sensible to do.

 

But then, Ford had thought it was sensible to do a lot of things, none of which had really had any sense behind them in hindsight.

 

“You… you think I should go submittin’ these to the gov’rnment?” His friend asks, trepidation evident in his tone as his brows furrow together.

 

“Absolutely,” he replies, no hesitation in his own voice. He’s sure of it. His friend deserves recognition for his brilliant mind, naturally, and of course the millions that would come pouring in as a result. “Your inventions are beyond normal achievement. You should receive compensation for what you do.”

 

Fiddleford squints up at him, then back down at the papers in his hands. “I… I don’t know,” he mumbles, frowning heavily.

 

“If it’s a matter of not wanting the limelight, then I’m sure you could ask for credit under an alias,” Ford replies.  _ Come on, Fiddleford. This will be good for you. You tried to push for publication of my research before. Now it’s my turn to push you to do the same. _

 

“I ain’t allowed in most places, Stanford.” Fiddleford’s voice is so quiet, he almost doesn’t catch it.

 

“What do you mean?” He’s baffled. What could his friend mean, he’s not  _ allowed _ in most places? Who’s banning him?

 

Then it hits him like a punch to the jaw, and he rocks back on his heels for a second, blinking in understanding. And shame at not having understood sooner, as he looks around again at where his friend lives. Looks over his friend’s unkempt appearance. No shirt on his back. No shoes. Unable to bathe regularly. Black oil streaked across part of his face and down his overalls. His manner of speaking and behaving a far cry from acceptable in society.

 

“I ain’t fit for it,” Fiddleford mutters again, letting the blueprints drop from his hands and crossing his arms. No. Wrapping them around his middle. Holding himself together. “‘S’nice thought. You were tryin’, I see that.”

 

His attempt to make Ford feel better only makes him feel far worse. “Fiddleford, I…” He bends down to pick up the blueprints from the dirt, dusting them off the best he can. Then he straightens, squaring his shoulders as he looks at his beaten-down friend. “No. I’ll go with you to the patent office. We’ll submit these, make sure all the credit goes to you and you alone. Make sure you have a way to deposit the checks you’ll receive. And if anyone tries  _ anything _ ,” he emphasizes, placing a hand on Fiddleford’s shoulder, making him look up, “I’ll make them regret it.” To punctuate the point, he draws back the right side of his coat, revealing the holstered laser gun he always keeps strapped to his hip. Letting the fabric fall back over the gun again, he adds, “If this is what you want.” The last thing he desires is to shove his friend into something he’s unwilling to do. He’s done it too many times, been so callous with Fiddleford’s rampant nerves and his basic safety. He’s determined to make up for his mistakes, not add onto them.

 

“You’d do all that for me?” Fiddleford's eyes don’t leave his, even as they begin to water. “I don’t know what to say or nothin’.” He sniffs, wiping away the tracks falling down his cheeks. “Y’know you are a  _ delight _ , Stanford Pines.” And he means it. If the bone-crushing hug Ford gets wrapped up in is proof enough of meaning every word he says.

 

“It’s the least I can do, my friend,” he replies, not very easily past the renewed thickness in his throat.

 

“Y’know, I think I oughta do somethin’ nice for you ‘fore ya leave.” Fiddleford pulls back, turning away and hurrying over to the chairs they’d sat in before. Then a banjo is yanked up from its hiding place, and Ford can’t help the smile spreading its way across his face. “If’n I recall, you liked hearin’ me play. Music makes ev’ryone feel lots better.”

 

“Absolutely,” he agrees, sitting down across from his friend again and resting his chin in his hand. Fiddleford wastes no time in starting up, calloused fingers running smoothly across the strings as he hums along to the tune. They stay like that for an endless stretch of time, tucked away from the world like when they were young, both humming along to the familiar thousands-years-old tune.  _ Lai l’lai. Lai l’lai lai lai lai lai, lai l’lai. Lai l’lai lai lai lai lai l’lai lai. _

 

_ “I could have sworn that as he joyfully played, I could see the age lift off his face, and see the Fiddleford who had been my friend so many years ago.” _


End file.
